Plourr Estillo (![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fighting_mad) wrote2008-04-08 03:26 am
fighting_mad) wrote2008-04-08 03:26 am
[AU] Milliways Bar
The bar's kinda quiet, today.
It's a change from a certain establishment on a backwater planet, anyway; for a moment, as the door opens, there's something of a general roar. Glass shattering, shouting, wood cracking as people are thrown into tables and chairs are broken over heads -- then the door shuts.
Plourr can taste blood in her mouth and her lip is starting to swell up; she's grinning wildly, though, as she weaves through empty tables to the bar, a tall, improbably muscled woman in boots, fitted trousers, a vest, and a tunic with the sleeves rolled up, a heavy blaster strapped to her right thigh. A small bundle of ice appears before she can say a word; she takes it, with only a light kick to the bar, and takes a seat on a stool. She presses the towel full of ice to her left hand's knuckles, which are ugly and split and smeared liberally with blood.
Not all of the blood on her knuckles, and none of it on her forearms, belongs to Lieutenant Ilo. (The rest of her is blood-free; she is good enough, by now, to avoid the worst of the sprays.) This is likely the cause behind her good humor.
It's a change from a certain establishment on a backwater planet, anyway; for a moment, as the door opens, there's something of a general roar. Glass shattering, shouting, wood cracking as people are thrown into tables and chairs are broken over heads -- then the door shuts.
Plourr can taste blood in her mouth and her lip is starting to swell up; she's grinning wildly, though, as she weaves through empty tables to the bar, a tall, improbably muscled woman in boots, fitted trousers, a vest, and a tunic with the sleeves rolled up, a heavy blaster strapped to her right thigh. A small bundle of ice appears before she can say a word; she takes it, with only a light kick to the bar, and takes a seat on a stool. She presses the towel full of ice to her left hand's knuckles, which are ugly and split and smeared liberally with blood.
Not all of the blood on her knuckles, and none of it on her forearms, belongs to Lieutenant Ilo. (The rest of her is blood-free; she is good enough, by now, to avoid the worst of the sprays.) This is likely the cause behind her good humor.
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Familiar and loud enough that Alex turns fast, boots dropping off the table, and her immediate thought is that some son of a bitch has started a ruckus in the middle of Milliways (and, hell, the mood she's in right now, she'd happily join in) -- but no, it's outside the door, and that same door cuts it off abruptly.
That woman's grin, though -- speak of familiar.
Alexandra Goncharova leans back in her chair, lets her eyebrows drift up with a wicked amusement, and drawls, "Whole room piss you off?"
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Beat.
"If they had a whole pack of equally thick-skulled friends, that wasn't my fault." It was her business, though, says her smirk.
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It's not a particularly ladylike sound. In case anyone was wondering.
"You did 'em the kindness of pointing that out?"
Hell, it's only polite, right? Something like that.
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"Builds character, right?"
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"That and broken bones."
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You make a living strapping yourself into a tank to get dropped out of a skyfurnace, you get cavalier about some of the occupational hazards.
Plus Alex has a shiny new set of marching orders back home, telling her it's time to trot off to get dropped out of a skyfurnace into an old familiar hellhole, and as such she wouldn't mind breaking a few heads herself.
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While she's still in it, but, semantics.
('Lady.' Ha.)
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"Bastards. Didn't their mommies teach 'em anything?"
Goddamn orders. She really wouldn't mind a brawl.
This'll do for the moment.
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"Personally, like I told 'em, I think their mothers were brainless no-account whores."
That was, possibly, when the first chair flew.
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"Well, I can't see why they didn't take well to you after that."
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It is very sad. Really. Heartbreaking.
"Don't appreciate getting their asses saved, either. It's a stupid galaxy out there."
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Beat.
"Galaxy?"
She's an old enough hand here that her tone curious, rather than startled. Still -- goddamn Milliways.
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"Yeah. Galaxy; thousands of planets, multiple systems, the Outer Rim, the Unknown Regions, that whole thing. Let me guess -- you're from Earth."
Sliding off the stool, she saunters in the other woman's direction, gesturing at the empty chair at her table. "You mind? The yelling's getting old."
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"Got about fifty goddamn Earths around here, seems like, but who's counting?"
She shrugs, a loose-jointed and amiable roll of the shoulders, with another swallow of vodka. "Suit yourself."
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"Hey, Lieutenant," she smirks at the sight of Plourr's face, "Did you leave any of them alive?"
[Ah notifications, you are so fun.]
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So she just snorts again into her glass, and leaves that one to the (other) red-haired woman to answer.
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Her uniform and her bearing both shout military, even if you don't know Red Fleet insignias to read the captain's pips. But right now they're also shouting off-duty, thankyouverymuch, and she leaves off the rank for the moment.
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She means herself.
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Yeah, right.
"Charmed," Alex drawls, and she does, she thinks, like both of these women; at least insofar as it's possible to, after five minutes of acquaintance. Like hell is that going to stop her from letting the word roll out with lazy insouciance, though.
There's another seat for Mirax if she wants it. She'd probably do better not to wait for an explicit invitation, though.